


Blessing and Taint

by Ozma



Series: Misconception [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ascian, Corruption, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7856188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Ascian cameth unto me armed with that most merciless of weapons: the truth.</i>
</p><p>Sequel to Nightshade. 2.0, post-Titan; chronological snippets elaborating on the Crystal Bearer and Thancred's growing relationship - or the individual the Crystal Bearer <i>believes</i> to be Thancred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I am assuming most readers have at least played through 2.0 - perhaps even multiple times. You don't need to read the Warrior being sent on mundane tasks like picking up trash or killing rats for gil. So I'm only going to cover relevant material; the main story events are still occurring, just in the background.
> 
> The purpose of this fiction is to give readers a foundation for how such a relationship can eventually come to be.
> 
> Chapters are of varying lengths, most are not terribly long. PoV and genre varies.
> 
> Knowledge of the one-shot Nightshade is not imperative, however it explains why events slightly differ, so I recommend you read it first.

He has made a mistake.

“Sword and Staff have seen to the Ixal. The remaining meddlers lick their wounds in Thanalan.” Chalice makes no effort to conceal his satisfaction.

\- nor does Lahabrea.

An error resulting in discovery of the solution, a misstep revealing a shortcut.

In his eagerness to please, Chalice remains oblivious to Lahabrea’s apathy. “Shall we –“

“Leave them.”

‘Tis not Lahabrea’s place to condemn such blessings.

“The Scions fade into irrelevancy.” An unsatisfactory answer - the only one Chalice will receive.

Hydaelyn’s submission through Her servant is a distraction Lahabrea ill affords.

A gamble.

Yet, is that not what this all is?

If Elidibus knew of Lahabrea’s intentions for the Heart, he would -

A smile dances over his lips.

'Tis fortunate Elidibus needs not learn of this endeavor until its completion.

“You will oversee the Weapon’s development.” Lahabrea's dismissive command doubtless displeases Chalice, but 'tis not a servant's place to question his master.

Her crystals and Her peace -

The chaos of the Blessed's dimming radiance.

Nay, there was no mistake; this crystal bearer, gifted and thoroughly favored, must shine.

For the brightest light summons the deepest of shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is for those readers who requested a more in-depth look at relationship building between an Ascian and the Warrior of Light.


	2. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Crystal Bearer recovers from the attack on the Waking Sands, Thancred returns.

He’s alive.

Seemingly untouched by the persistent heat that spreads a sheen of sweat over your brow, Thancred steps from the shadows and into the illumination of Drybone’s midday sun. Disinterested in the market’s passerbys, his gaze remains firmly on you as the beginnings of a smile grace his lips.

Thank the Twelve.

Words are elusive. What can be said?

_Where have you been?_

_I’m glad you’re safe._

_I’ve missed you._

All shallow and insufficient.

You return Thancred’s smile with a small nod; the simple, intimate expression is the only way to adequately demonstrate the depths of happiness flooding your veins.

“Not even a career in Godslaying sways your stoicism, it seems.”

Thancred’s consistent, predictable tease is welcome in the chaos that follows the Lord of Crags’ defeat and his playful greeting bursts the dam in your chest. Succumbing to irrational emotions, time stops and the world blurs as you rush to meet Thancred. Resting a hand on Thancred’s cheek, you feel all the warmth of his flesh, from his minimal, rough stubble, down to the smooth, fragile skin of his neck, tracing the brands that mark him as Archon; the tips of your fingers finally roam to his lips, reveling in how very _real_ Thancred is.

Blinded by intense emotion, only belatedly do you recognize Thancred’s discomfort at your blatant affection, a stiffness in his posture clearly present, if well hidden.

‘Tis best to not be so presumptuous; ‘twas one night – Thancred has nights with many partners, if his silly tales are to be believed.

Withdrawing slowly, you smooth the erratic edges from your emotions and apologize under your breath.

“You needn’t worry for me.” He dismisses your embarrassment, as if the awkward rejection never occurred. ”You’re the one challenging Gods, my duties are not nearly so strenuous.”

“But the Sands –“ You do your best to stifle a grimace as vestiges of remorse slip into your tone; the Echo grants visions of such intensity that you might well have been present at any event witnessed – and the memories – the pain – of the Sands’ massacre are as clear as if they occurred only bells ago.

Only by chance did Thancred avoid a similar fate.

“I know.” He schools his expression into blank neutrality; Thancred is irritatingly unreadable when he chooses to be.

“We’ve laid those we found to rest.“  The admission is as much comfort for yourself as ‘tis Thancred; the memory of sun-bloated flesh and cold, limp weight on your back as you lifted their remains into the cart is still fresh within. You hesitate only briefly as you push the image away as best you can; there is no point in dancing around the truth.  “Minfilia was taken by the Garleans.”

Thancred remains unflinching at the revelation. As with most ills, he will doubtless choose to suffer in private as to not trouble others.

Would that he rely on you, as you do him. “I’m sorry.” No words are adequate consolation.

“What are your plans now?”  With all the deftness of an Ul'dahn pickpocket, Thancred shifts the topic from Minfilia and the other Scions. You cannot blame him; you are more than willing to move on to more pleasant discussions.

“Garuda has been summoned. We seek Cid’s airship - the _Enterprise –_ so that we can confront her.” Thancred’s interest is visibly piqued, anticipatory smile reaching his eyes, awaiting elaboration. “We’ve only tales of its flight. Have you any ideas where we might find it?”

“None, but doubtless you've a lead, lest you wouldn’t have mentioned it.” A small smile breaks through the melancholy as you nod. “Shall we depart?”

 _That’s_ – you almost instinctively deny him, unwilling to risk Thancred becoming Garuda’s thrall, but stop yourself before the rejection passes your lips.

Words will not stay his hand, just as cautions do nary to stop you or any other Scion. 

“We must needs work together, now more than ever.” Thancred speaks with commanding finality, brooking no dissent.

The fallen Scions – their screaming and pleading – 

You cannot deny Thancred, lest he foolishly attempt to rescue Minfilia on his own, only to end up in a similar state.

With a curt nod, you consent.

“Excellent. Before I forget –“ With the same grace he wields his blade, Thancred rummages through his sack – a new acquisition, it seems – before he lifts an unknown item from its depths; in his open palm rests a tiny, pale linkpearl. “- Our old linkshell might have be compromised by the Garleans.”A logical conclusion, the Empire learned of the Sands, despite its defensive enchantments. “We’ll be the only ones in it, for a time.”

He drops it into your hand, the pearl cool, smooth, and surprisingly lonely.

“Thank you.”

The warm swell in your breast returns your resolve. Cid and Thancred yet live; despite Garuda’s summoning, the Garlean forces, and Ascian meddling, for the first time since Titan’s defeat, your fortunes look to improve.


	3. Quests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lahabrea's interest at playing mortal only extends so far - Coerthas tests his already limited patience.

He longs for clear blackness.

Bound within the confining fragility of mortal flesh, the muddled greys and browns of Hydaelyn blur; vibrant smells – of smoke, snow-moistened soil, and the bitter needles of evergreens - are both blessing and curse, an experience unique to mortals otherwise unobtainable, yet pointless for prolonged indulgence when so ephemeral.

No familiar, endless stillness exists in this place, for nothing remains longer than a breath – the only constant is invasive motion, from the breeze through the trees to the skittish denizens, or the temperamental Coerthan aether, explosive and uncontrolled. Even the chaotic aether will soon fade and collapse upon itself, unable to sustain the depths of its expansion.

How wasteful.

“Thancred?” A hesitant touch on his forearm breaks his focus. “Are you well? Thrice I called for you.” Unfounded worry fills the Crystal Bearer’s gaze, the empathy a weakness for any who cares to exploit it. “They’ve asked us –“

“Haven’t we suffered enough of their _errands_?” They are but menial chores; he needs not hear further mortal demands.

For all Lahabrea’s servants claim the Crystal Bearer repeatedly meddles in their affairs, Hydaelyn’s Chosen spends a remarkable amount of time on assignments better suited to a retainer than one tainted with Her Light.

Not even Hydaelyn’s desperation, Her favored working as a mercenary and begging local favors, mollifies Lahabrea.

“Apparently not.” The Chosen’s annoyed sigh embodies his irritation; loath as he is to admit his agreement, Lahabrea shares her frustrations.

The Crystal Bearer will never grow so long as she is relegated to pointless mortal tasks.

He crosses his arms over his chest; the situation is unfavorable. Lahabrea will not remain idle, wasting time that should be spent productively. If he must, he will create -

She stares.

Wordlessly, she mimics his motion and crosses her arms over her chest, gaze resolute as it stubbornly pierces him.

“Yes?” He demands, but the Crystal Bearer provides no explanation; Lahabrea holds no fondness of unpredictability, especially from a child of Light.

With utmost abandon, a secretive, mischievous, and all together unpleasant smile flits over her lips.

“’Tis nothing.” A light, playful edge seeps from her tone, one Lahabrea is unfamiliar with, but quickly understands the intent of.

Lahabrea’s jaw clenches; playing at being a servant of Light while the Crystal Bearer makes a mockery of him –

His reaction only serves to amuse her more; unable to withhold the emotion any longer, the Chosen’s subdued laughter reaches his ears.

“You needn’t be upset.” Her voice softens quickly in intent to soothe, but the remnants of breathy laughter reveal continued amusement. “We’re making progress. Soon we’ll have the answers we seek.”

_Progress._

Absurd.

Before Lahabrea corrects her, the crunch of snow fills his ears; the small Elezen boy appears just as impatient and irritated as Lahabrea feels as he looks upon the disagreement.

“. . .Are you two quite done?” The boy is not a welcome presence, always sticking his nose where it does not belong and interfering in affairs that are none of his concern.

\- As children of Light are ever wont to do.

“Aye, the constant requests are simply wearing on us.” The soft smile does not leave her lips, nor does the playful light in her eyes fade, her attentions never once leaving Lahabrea. “Come, let’s get this done with.”

Relegated to following commands like the Crystal Bearer’s pet –

Her hand on his shoulder again interrupts his thoughts. “We’ll overlook some of the more exploitative assignments.” She murmurs below the Elezen boy’s hearing.

Rationality from the Chosen of Light –

He supposes everything must have a first in history.


	4. Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thancred and the Crystal Bearer again meet under the night sky, this time under much different circumstances.

On the ice-slicked battlements of Dragonhead you find him, seemingly untouched by the deep night’s chill. As Thancred looks upon the clear starlit sky, the moon commands his unwavering attention and subdues him into rare silence.

“You should rest.” You scold lightly, approaching from behind, doubting he’ll relent so easily even as the words form on your tongue.

He scoffs with expected disinterest, but his sour mood is little deterrence. If concern will not suffice in drawing Thancred's attention, you must needs humor him, so that worries are lifted from his chest and he can rest easily.

“Are you weaving a new tale?” Leaning against the stone ramparts beside him, you attempt to follow his gaze, finding nothing but empty, black skies.

“A tale. . .?” You draw his attention with unexpected ease; strangely amused, Thancred chuckles under his breath as he continues. “That I am - a tale you know well.”

Thancred speaks little sense, but you focus your attentions on him anyway, losing yourself in the cadence of his elaboration.

“Coerthas was not always so saturated in ice and snow. The destruction Bahamut wrought rapidly altered the flow of aether through the land.”

He’s right, you know this story well.

“Astral and Umbral, there exists an intended balance - a cycle, as it were.” Thancred’s gaze finally drops from the sky to rest on distant, snow-topped trees.  “In Coerthas, such balance no longer remains, which is the cause for the rapid changes in the clime. If the scale continues to tip –“

Thancred needs not continue, the implications clear.

Coerthas, already inhospitable, would become uninhabitable. In its current state, Coerthan wildlife faces extinction or a dangerous, desperate migration; even the Ishgardians are challenged by the weather patterns and the situation only looks to worsen.

“But how do we fix this imbalance?” He questions as he finally turns his full attentions to you; his piercing gaze holds intensity you do not remember seeing from him, a sharpness that draws your breath from your lungs and steals the words from your lips.

_That’s –_

There is no easy answer. The amount of aether needed to counteract the growing ice-aspect in Coerthas would be at least as much as the catalyst – an option neither realistic nor feasible when Bahamut is the imbalance’s cause.

Or, if such a thing exists, you’d need to find the source of the corruption and put an end to it.

You tell him as much.

Thancred’s lips tilt into the slightest smile, both elusive and uninterpretable, different from any you’ve seen him wear. His voice barely a whisper above the wind, the satisfaction he radiates is almost tangible.

“That you must.”


	5. Uncertainties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whitebrim tests the Crystal Bearer's patience - and Thancred certainly isn't helping.

You are no fool.

Gleaning information on Guillaime from the voluptuous Elezen is futile; her attentions are focused entirely on Thancred, hands teasing low and all but playing at the waistband of his trousers.

Thancred does not react.

You’ve excused his change in behavior, rationalizing it as worry, fear, and impatience, and yet -

The informant does not receive so much as a gentle dismissal before Thancred rejects her as apathetically as he might brush a speck of Drybone’s dust from his tunic.

“Are we done here?”

Thancred is fierce and harsh, his voice like grating sand, replacing the silken playfulness you once knew.

He is so very _off._

“Thancred –“ You hesitate, already certain of his explanation.

He is weary –

Troubled –

Frustrated -

And rightfully so – you are as well.

This is not the man who gifts you flowers and a poem of his making in attempt to claim a powerful, unique treasure.

You’re unsure whether to be flattered that Thancred sheds his playful façade in your presence – for so few know these depths - or to worry that he no longer deems it a necessity.

Yet even with his confidence in you, Thancred chooses not to confide his ills.  You accept that you are partially at fault; by allowing yourself to be distracted by the curious riddles Thancred presents during his softer moments, you’ve lost multiple opportunities to pursue answers.

“Let’s share what we’ve learned with Alphinaud.  Hopefully he’s had better luck than us.” You relent, leaving well enough alone.  Such reservations are best suited for private; discussing Thancred’s uncertainties while a storm looms on the horizon is naught but foolishness.

Gentle snow flurries dance through your hair as you pass through Whitebrim’s subdued market; the only disruption in the stillness is the impassioned bartering between shopkeepers and their customers. Instinctively, your attention darts over the citizens, rapidly searching for any resources or information of value - only to come to rest on precisely the man you seek. Guillaime leans into a subdued conversation as he whispers to an unknown merchant, a gentle smile gracing his features.

You put a hand out to stop Thancred, eyes not leaving your quarry. “The Inquisitor.” You murmur below your breath, so that Thancred follows your gaze.

As if on cue, both merchant and Inquisitor look up and return your stare, Guillaime’s smile transforming into a satisfied smirk.  He doubtless seeks to make a public display of you, in a demonstration for Whitebrim’s citizens.

“Guillaime undermines us at every opportunity.” Frustration seeps into the quiet curse.

Getting _that_ look to him again, Thancred’s irritation is palpable, the clench of his jaw signifying impatience. You will very likely disapprove of his next proposition.

“We end this now.” He says with the expected stubborn determination.

“Let’s not be rash.” You attempt to placate Thancred before he can further this foolishness. “We can’t attack him in the middle of the city full of potential allies, we don’t even –“

“I said no such thing.” He pays no heed to your anxieties. “You’ll use your Gift and learn the truth of matters.”

 _Of course_. If anything is off in his intentions or purpose, you can easily discover it with resonance - and yet –

Your previous use of the Echo has been incidental, through luck, coincidence, or some basal need to search for further knowledge of the situation. Willingly viewing the memory of the unknowing is entirely a different matter.

Thancred senses your hesitation and snarls with unexpected ferocity.   “We’ve no more time for games! Do you not seek to challenge Garuda? What of the Scions?  The longer we dally the greater the threat becomes.”

His logic is sound; the Echo will be used to prevent further violence in a non-invasive way, so that after significant delay by matters that were never your concern, you’ll _finally_ have a chance to confront Garuda and temporarily mend Eorzea’s aetheric balance.  What other reason did She bless you with the Echo if not for this purpose?  

You will do what you must, as you always have.

There is one problem.

“I can’t control it.” You confess.

“That is no hindrance, I am your master.”  Even when he changes in all other ways, Thancred retains his confidence and dismisses any worries as insignificant.  He further explains. “I happened upon some research on the matter while doing my inquiries into the Ascians.”

“What does the Echo have to do with Ascians?” What else does Thancred know that he is yet to share?

“Later. We must act before we lose the opportunity.” He grasps your hand and pulls you near.

You must trust him.

Even if he’s _different_ now, Thancred still holds your interests close to heart.  He’s right; Eorzea’s – Hydaelyn’s - safety is more imperative than playing games with Ishgard’s Great Houses. ‘Tis time to move on with your journey.

You accept his proposal with a firm, final nod.

“I will guide you.” He offers no further warning, his aether immediately enveloping your flesh, a warm tingle that starts from the hand he grasps and spreads through your core like warm soup on a cool night.

You know not how, but with an undeniable, commanding tug, Thancred delves through you, drawing your internal aether into his. His foreign presence creates dissonance between essence and flesh and, in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the pull of an aetheryte, he guides you, the limited, imperative aether leaving its restrictive soulspace like a serpent shedding its skin.

Unlike teleportation, you retain consciousness during the strange ritual, the resulting feeling reminiscent of being drawn by Hydaelyn’s summons.

Your resonance searches with uncontrolled, instinctual curiosity; it learns and tastes Thancred’s aether within you in a way you’ve not before –

Like this, so close, much closer than through physical contact, you _know_ him.

This is _Thancred_ , an indescribable, distracting, existence swirling around you like a whirlpool, funneling and dragging you within it, yet not assimilating you into the tunnel itself; you cling to the unfamiliar sensations, distinct from you, yet all together similar, summoning them until you’re overwhelmed by a unity you might never experience again.

“Concentrate.” He hisses, a deep commanding vibration that courses through you and demands submission. With Thancred’s control over your focus, an alarmingly familiar resonance floods your remaining senses and your body falls limp from the Echo’s numbness. ‘Tis a strangely distant sensation, as if it is happens with a shade, rather than to you.

“Direct your search through recent memories, the mind will bend if you but ask.  Yours is a convenient Gift.” The words are somehow clear and yet you barely heed him, the world churning in unfamiliar chaos so overwhelming that you cannot but follow Thancred’s lead, all other thoughts secondary. You can only hope his guidance leads you to proper resonance and that the foreign essence he entrusts you to - barely recognizable as Spoken, let alone Guillaime in this state - is the correct one.

Time's passage is unknowable; be it second or bell, you know not how long it takes for Thancred to release you, leaving you alone at the enigmatic destination. You roam the new individual with interest, seeping into him with ease, unsure how to learn what you seek without Thancred’s guidance. A barrier momentarily impedes your progress, but it crumbles easily, like sand sculptures in the tide, and with it, you recognize immediate success; all that remains of your sensations fade and familiar, blinding dizziness overtakes you.

_A corpse in the snowfield._

_Imposter._

_Heretic._


	6. Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Thancred aided the Crystal Bearer in her control of the Echo, he promised answers - and she comes to collect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes a references to mentions of the Echo from 1.0, but for those that didn't play it you needn't worry, they flow naturally, I simply added them for canon flavor.

Thancred’s bunk is empty.

There are few places for Thancred to wander at such a late bell. He oft favors spending his private time in the open air under clear moonlight, but the frost-kissed roof is as deserted as his bunk and thrice as cold, the moon and stars obscured by a blizzard fierce enough to prevent both passage from Whitebrim on foot and entry into the Stone Vigil.

Your search of Drillemont’s chamber proves equally futile; Thancred yet remains elusive and you’ve not a clue to where he has gone.

Down is the only option that remains and down is where you will go; Thancred owes you answers and you’ll not allow him to evade you.  Though the Scions appreciate your steadfast determination, you doubt Thancred will continue singing your praises when he is the target of your willfulness.

In heavy silence that only arises from the depths of night, your footsteps seem to echo on the stone stairwell loudly enough to block the wind’s wail and yet the soldiers’ breaths remain undisturbed as you pass through the barracks and into the darkness of the common room. Even the last remaining hum of the wind fades at the bottom of the tower, sound muffled by thick stone and snowfall; the fire’s crackle as it devours the remains of its kindling is all that breaks the silence.

The tower’s base, too, is barren of life, the entranceway barred to prevent intrusion.

 _Impossible_ – Thancred _must_ be here, there is nowhere else to go in this storm.  You delve deeper into the darkness in attempt to ascertain that he does not hide in the shadows.

His absence defies expectation. You half expected to discover him sipping fine wine or strong mead, perhaps anticipating the assault on Stone Vigil - instead you find nothing but the frustrating dance of shadows manipulated by dying flames.

The faintest nag of aether at the back of your mind sets you on edge, a subtle warning against the unfamiliar and unknown; your gaze darts over the room, breaths rapid, every instinct preparing for battle.

Your name shatters the tense silence and you turn instinctively, weapon at ready.

“You’re up late for someone leaping headlong into enemy territory at dawn’s break.” Sardonic amusement seeps unhidden from Thancred’s tone as he stands at your back, no more than two paces away.

So he _is_ here; calming your nerves slowly and purposefully, you sheathe your weapon and attempt to subdue the wary edge from your muscles.  “Thancred.”

He nods offhandedly, seemingly uncaring that only moments ago your weapon was raised against him, and sits himself at the table nearest the fireplace. Thancred does not so much as approach a tankard of ale, his attentions instead drawn to the flames as if he pursues the serenity of meditation.

You’ve had enough of his evasions.  “I’ll rest when I’ve the answers I seek.”

The firmness of your declaration has its intended effect; though the shadows mask his thoughts, Thancred returns his attention you and replies nonchalantly.

“Ah, I did promise, didn’t I? Very well.” Thancred motions for you to sit across from him at the table of smooth, age-worn wood and continues only once you oblige him, illuminating fire dancing over your features. “Humor me – be specific.”

His lips upturns in a smirk as his gaze unflinchingly meets yours. Unfathomable though his reasons may be, he radiates undeniable satisfaction.

“After you recommended I use the Echo on Guillaime, you guided me.  What did you do?”

“Very little.” His confidence is absolute; Thancred assuredly was preparing for this.  “You told me of your encounter with Titan – of how Y’shtola enhanced a distant aetheryte to grant you passage.  My method is similar.”

That can’t be right.  “Teleportation transports the entirety of the incantation’s user – both body and mind.” You point out the disparity in his argument as your curiosity grows at his absolute certainty. “You drew my mind alone _._ That does not seem like ‘very little.’”

“Patience, I will explain.” He’s clearly displeased at the interruption. “The methods differ, but the results are identical – manipulation of the core aether that makes up your soul. It is the Echo that allows for this true separation of the barrier between flesh and soul.”

Effortlessly, he commands your attentions with an undeniable magnetism, his words almost hypnotic in their promise of knowledge that you wonder if even Minfilia knows; he focuses on you with equal intensity, as if no one else exists in Eorzea, leaving you breathless.  

“The Echo is drawn to those around it, so that you learn anyone’s mind with ease. Even thoughtlessly and without experience, this resonation occurs as naturally as your breaths, your Echo touching all sentient individuals you interact with. ”

He confirms what you already know; the Echo is a convenient and versatile tool, yet if asked _why_ and _how_ you use it, you could provide no answer.

“An obscure arcane tome describes a method of how, rather than allow the Echo’s constant, uncontrollable flow of your core aether into everyone around you, ‘tis possible for the Gifted to target with intent in place of instinct.  The greatest challenge the writings describe is obtaining a suitable catalyst for stability – which I fortunately happen to be in possession of, though in the future your Crystals of Light will suffice.”

“Why would the author seek to harness the Echo?” You muse as Thancred holds his hand out in offering, the so-called catalyst slipping into your palm.

In your hand rests a tiny, silver _thing_ , similar to a crystal you might use in synthesis and yet _not_. Rather than radiate energy, it seems to siphon – somehow – from the deepest depths of your flesh, not uncomfortably, before it repeatedly, cyclically flows back from whence it came.

You return the strange item quickly, the faint tingle within not entirely dissipating even when no longer in direct contact with it – ‘tis as he says, the catalyst evokes a feeling not entirely dissimilar to Hydaelyn’s crystals.

When your attentions return to Thancred, his demeanor bears a severity previously absent.

“With such lack of control, you leave your body on instinct rather than will. What happens when you cannot stop the resonance? Will you be unable to return and exist only in the state of, as Minfilia describes, a mind without flesh?”

The breath hitches in your chest and a chill runs down your spine. Further questions die on your tongue, having never before considered the dangers of uncontrolled resonation.  You’ve never had reason to.

Thancred continues without heed of the ominous atmosphere, the foreboding tug at the back of your mind persisting even as he pacifies you with his hypnotic tale. “You might have heard the whispers – many with the Echo journey for knowledge of their Gift, only to mislike the answers they find. All refuse to reveal the truth of their discovery _._

“What did they learn? What are the depths of your capabilities? If _any_ mind is open for you to know, so that the memories might well be yours, for what purpose would Hydaelyn grant such immense power? How does She choose the ones She gifts and why does She not guide Her servants in its use?”

Rhetorical though they might be, Thancred's questions are almost incomprehensible and with the multitude of threats you face, you doubt you’ll learn the answers any time soon. You’ve no idea where to start looking or asking.

You regret your earlier impatient assumption that Thancred was avoiding you; his delay is understandable after learning the truth of his burden, even if hoarding the knowledge to himself is equally troubling.

Yet there’s still one final question he avoids.

”But what were you researching that led you to this? You mentioned Ascians.”

“Aye, ‘twas discovered while researching the Ascians to aid you and Minfilia.” He shrugs.  “There might yet be a connection between them and only time will reveal the truth of matters.”

He concludes with finality; there’s little more he can answer and, though he gives you exactly what you seek, the revelations leave you empty, dissatisfied, and feeling as if you know less than you did when the discussion started.

And yet -

He did it to protect you.

Even surrounded by harsh stone walls and a raging blizzard just outside them, you feel flush, a warmth spreading from your stomach that does not arise from the hearth.

“Thancred, I –“  You’re glad he’s here, even for all he has changed - even if you must learn him entirely anew.  “Thank you.”

“Save your thanks for when you’ve mastered your Gift.” He waves you off with the expected nonchalance.

 _When_ – he has such faith that you cannot but smile.

“I’ll hold you to it.” Thancred is strangely severe in his final request and, with the night’s morbid revelations, you understand why.

You must master this Gift.

You nod, the smile never once leaving your lips.


	7. Tools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crystal bearer has promised herself to him. Lahabrea intends to see that promise through, a single step at a time.

Malleable.

Easily influenced.        

Insufferably ignorant, when he is in the sourest mood.

There are a myriad of descriptions for Her Crystal Bearer and yet –

None are entirely correct.

Hydaelyn’s tool is truly to be pitied, Her binding connection tenuous at best, the Crystal Bearer’s true purpose long since forgotten by the annals of time. Hydaelyn gifts Her children and leaves them with naught but a vague message and purpose – a command that they give their life for a cause they know nothing of.

A convenient ignorance; a hound left to the wilds long enough will bite even its master’s hand.

Nay, he cannot fault her for mortality’s inherent flaws, not when Hydaelyn’s curse renders Him equally silent to His servants.

“In spite of your past achievements, I labor to believe you will best this foe.” She rewards him with immediate and expected indignation, accompanying a stubborn set to her shoulders as she accepts his challenge.

As it should be; the crystals must be nurtured.

“Yet only a fool would underestimate the great Bringer of Light, slayer of Ifrit, bane of Titan.  If any mortal is capable of defeating the Lady of the Vortex, it is you.”

There is time; even the foulest of taints can be cleansed with the proper panacea.

Darkness swirls through the broken Vigil.

“Your master will not aid you here. “

And Lahabrea has the sole remedy to return Her power to its rightful place.


	8. Bindings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crystal Bearer learns; Lahabrea reveals the smallest measure of his nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, I swear.
> 
> Thanks to Zahira for helping me with the quality of this chapter!

The clink of empty glasses and murmur of voices only barely overcome the storm’s howl, subdued refugees and discontent merchants alike seeking solace in Drybone’s tavern, the day’s business stalled by the unanticipated dust storm raging across Thanalan’s sands.

Nary a soul bothers a second glance to any of the flustered adventurers bustling about the tavern; clothing and hair disheveled by the winds, your face unrecognizable to the lesser populace, anonymity offers you brief respite. But even sips of water do little to soothe your dust-parched throat as frustration at the researchers that took advantage of you pools within.

“You went off on your own without thinking to ask what was needed?”

Across the table, disbelief colors Thancred’s features. You cannot blame him for his incredulity; the corrupted crystal does not suit your needs in the least, all your effort meaningless, your time wasted. Would that Cid have told you the necessary aspect initially.

“Had you but reigned your impatience –“  Irritation briefly laces his tone but is dismissed quickly, as if in rejection. “I have procured the necessary crystal for us.”

Shame momentarily swells within. In the Stone Vigil, the Ascian possessed worrisome knowledge of your plans to challenge Garuda, provoking your unwarranted haste. Thancred speaks true, you should have waited.

“Scion, Chosen - _Blessed_ , why expend effort on such tasks?”

“This again?” Anger flares, searing the remains of shame; you’ve always been an adventurer first, he above all knows that. “I’m an adventurer - ”

“You’re more than that.” He corrects and lifts a hand over the table, in his palm an unadorned package. An offering – but not of peace, of condemnation, its contents not in doubt. ”Does your assigned purpose mean so little?”

You are not so foolish to accept the crystal, not with the tension between you so thick it drowns out the storm.

“That is not all I am.” The unexpected intensity of Thancred’s disapproval at your refusal to acknowledge what he perceives your role to be is alarming and your next words leave your tongue with unintended hesitation. “You are not only a Scion.”

Silence speaks more than any words can and only belatedly do you recognize your mistake.

Thancred is devoted fully to his cause. The Scions would give their lives for Eorzea, for Hydaelyn, just as they’ve asked you to risk yours.

The weight of this seemingly endless struggle between peoples, of cyclic conflict and its unknowable goals -

That is the burden of a Scion of the Seventh Dawn.

Games, Thancred once called menial tasks assigned by strangers; in comparison to the fate of Eorzea and Hydealyn, he’s not wrong.

Further words slip from your grasp with all the slickness of ice, the knowledge making you feel very small, your life no longer entirely your own.

“You did not understand the path laid before you.”  Weight lurks beneath Thancred’s accusation, a disapproving pity that stings like an invisible slap; the safety of Eorzea is no passing fancy, but an undertaking to devote your life to – a duty you thoughtlessly made light of.

Keeping peace in Eorzea, the Garleans’ return, slaying Primals -

Events spun out of control so quickly.

Overseeing Hydaelyn is a burden far too large for any individual, no matter the power She imparts unto Her favored. Only with Thancred by your side, with his experience and knowledge of the Arcane and his aid in lifting the veil and piercing the shroud with truth, is there a chance for success.

Revelation’s bitter taste drowns out companionship’s sweet promise. Even in the depths on the storm you recognize the determination that flutters over Thancred’s features, a silent, unconditional devotion to his purpose.

“Nay, I did not.” A rueful admission spoken as you finally lift your palm across the table in acceptance of Thancred’s offering; the gifts have already been given, there are no halves.

You are Her Crystal Bearer now; no matter your will, you’d best start learning.


	9. Duties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the end of one tale is but the beginning of another.

“A crystal for your duty.” Fingers worn from years at a blade’s hilt come to rest above your heart and clench briefly into a fist, as if grasping the invisible crystals of light within his palm. “And a crystal for a primal.”

 _This will be the last_ , his unspoken declaration.

“What happens next?” All that you’ve struggled for comes to fruition; the end of one journey is the beginning of another, horizons unknown.

“You will be bound to Her will, as servant to master.”

Beyond blasé neutrality you hear it, lurking in the depths of his intonation. No longer as ignorant to Thancred’s true mannerisms as you were some moons ago, once-obscured emotions remain clear even behind his mask of informality.

Spite.

Whatever disgusts him, he refuses to put it into words. ‘Tis odd from Thancred, he has ever shown you honesty, revealing even the cursed fates of the Tempered left unmentioned by the others.

Coiling through your breast under his strong fingers, a pit swells within and chills course your flesh.

What choice do you have?

You know what must needs to be done, the consequences can be considered later.

The Lady of the Vortex awaits.

\--

Sleep comes slowly in the Waking Sands, a mix of dozing wakefulness that cannot truly be called rest at all.

Peaceful respite is a luxury to any adventurer and even the resurgence of Yda and Y’shtola offers little restfulness to your slumber, not with and with the wails of suffering Scions remaining in this place, the memories imparted by the Echo as fresh within your mind as if they had occurred no more than bells previous.

As your eyes once again blink open at delusions of screams your rational mind knows have long-since faded, dizziness pulls you from your half-conscious reverie with untold strength. Familiar though the Gift’s warnings might be, you clench your eyes shut, lest the spinning send you reeling to the floor.

Even if you tried to stop it you could not, Thancred’s warnings of the dangers of uncontrolled resonance impossible to heed when you are at the mercy of the Gods.

When the darkness that fills your vision clears, fire falls from the sky – an image you know perhaps better than any other, a premonition meaningless and crucial both.

You blink, as you always do – as you ever will again.

“Bringer of Light” She is close, nearer than She has ever been, Her essence burning into your soul with such strength that Her words might well be your thoughts.  “Braver gatherer of the Crystals…thy soul burneth bright.”

Soft, gentle words, pleased and kind, like a mother praising a flawlessly obedient child, words little different than any others Hydaelyn has offered over the course of your journey, followed by warnings vague and curious.

Crimson brands and shadow, bringers of death - riddles upon riddles with no end, the answers no less vague than the questions posed upon your awakening to the Echo.

She requests yet more with neither elaboration nor explanation.

“But _why_?” You can hold your tongue no longer, not when vestiges of truth are within your grasp. “Why do they herald destruction? What is their goal?”

Before you know what you’re doing, the words spill from your lips, flowing uncontrolled, the dam of silent acquiescence broken.

“The crystals shall be your salvation - thy sword and shield both.”

If She hears your queries, She makes no attempt to heed them, but try you must. There’s so much you don’t know - about anything, your Gift, Hydaelyn, these servants of shadow.

“What is the Gift?”

She commanded you find the crystals and you unflinchingly faced insurmountable odds at Her word, now She asks yet more with naught but a pat on the shoulder. Thancred offers more answers than Hydaelyn does.

“What does it mean to be chosen?”

Does the power She grants bear the curse of servitude?

“What do you want from me?”

Where do Her demands end?

“Why _me_?”

Desperate pleas echo through the deepest depths of blue, bleeding into the endless aether of Hydaelyn Herself, and yet Her only answer is silence.


	10. Poisons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaken by her encounter with Hydaelyn, the Bringer of Light once again seeks out Thancred.

The lap of waves is the only sound that echoes through Vesper Bay so deeply into the night, the sky clear and His visage full, the purest of darkness radiating throughout the land.

This is His time.

There no beauty in this star, this prison of stolen aether, nonetheless, ‘tis Lahabrea’s star to shape – and mold he has, toiling with devotion above all others.  The seeds are sown; he has tarried long enough and the season for tilling fast approaches.

Everything yet falls into place, the familiar footfalls that sound from behind him the final signal of victory’s culmination.

“It seems neither of us could sleep.” She greets Lahabrea with a smile, as if attempting to alleviate his worries, but he knows the truth of matters.  Frustrated trepidation seeps from the Chosen of Light, a tightness in her mannerisms, well-hidden anxieties of unquestionable cause; abhorrent light penetrates her essence and she pleads for escape, searching for the only individual capable of alleviating her discomfort.

“She spoke to you.”

“In a sense.” An unacceptably vague response; Lahabrea tells her as much. “She told me of nothing but riddles and nonsense.” She pleads without voice, a pitiful trapped beast begging for reassurance, for any answers he withholds.

She seeks naught but non-existent delusional comforts, as is ever the way of Hydaelyn’s Chosen.

The apprehension in her form speaks of growth from ignorance; no longer the blind fool of past Blessed, this is a tool that can be refurbished.  “I know not what she intends for me, but -” And yet still she hesitates, demonstrating the selflessness that appealed to a master who asks everything; such admirable, if foolhardy, devotion.  “I’m uncertain I’ve any choice.”

“You are bound now.”  His agreement displays calculated pause. “I once spoke of a proper way of things.  That must be what Hydaelyn seeks.”

The Bringer of Light shows not a tinge of uncertainty and accepts his word without question.

It appears that even when She speaks, Hydaelyn tells Her servants nothing, lest Her support crumble from its foundations from the burden of truth. Her caution serves Lahabrea’s purpose well.  

The Blessed's firm stare returns to default neutrality as she overlooks the sea and follows Lahabrea’s gaze to the stars, imprisoned within her thoughts as much as her crystals.

“Thancred.” When she speaks again, it is gently; only to Lahabrea does she murmur this way. As it should be.  “Back then –“ She corrects herself with the briefest hesitation. “- And now. I was so ignorant.” The same fool mortal - and yet perhaps not so much the jester. “You’ve opened my eyes in ways no others could.”  She thinks better of elaboration, silence encompassing more than words. “Thank you.”

A smile reserved for Lahabrea proves Her taint is yet to reach the Bringer of Light’s core; his remains the hand of guidance.

“I need no thanks.” He makes no attempt at stymieing the swell of satisfaction that courses his volatile mortal form.

“I suppose not.” Content yet drained, she leans into the security of Lahabrea’s flesh, finally finding the solace Hydaelyn stole from her under His blessed radiance.


	11. Webs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igeyorhm bears witness to the most abhorrent of theatres.

Long has Igeyorhm been past alarm, but on this night she scarcely believes her senses.

Were it anyone else, Igeyorhm would turn a blind eye; the others’ interactions with mortals are of no concern. Yet this is Lahabrea, his companion of choice the Bringer of Light; together they bathe under His radiance, the befouled Chosen of Hydaelyn resting her weight against him as lovers might.

The light-blessed mortal on Lahabrea’s arm surely remains at his side against his will.  Igeyorhm needs but await her inevitable extraction.

Yet no matter her patience, the vile spectacle continues; rather than distance himself, Lahabrea freely roams mortal flesh, claiming it for his own like he might bind a lesser servant. He pierces Hydaelyn’s barriers with an ease only possible because the Chosen of Light permits it, coursing her veins and shrouding her light until ‘tis little more than the faintest glow.

For how long he persists, Igeyorhm knows not; she remains until she can stand the abhorrent sight no longer. Igeyorhm lets her presence be known to him as the last remnants of Hydaelyn’s light fade from her immediate senses.

Lahabrea barely heeds her, dismissing Igeyorhm as he might a minor inconvenience, all the while making no effort to remove Hydaelyn’s servant from his person, theatre continuing unhindered.

She knows not Lahabrea’s thoughts, but Igeyorhm is not so weak-willed to concede defeat at his stubbornness; Lahabrea knows he cannot continue his fool avoidance.

Only when Igeyorhm draws near enough that the mortal might sense her does Lahabrea disturb the individual at his side, waking her unhurriedly, as irritated as Igeyorhm is disgusted.

Igeyorhm pays no heed to their murmurs; she needs no words to know the truth of their liaison.

Only after his partner has left does Lahabrea turn to her, annoyance set in his mannerisms as he awaits inevitable condemnation.

“I did not think you one to suffer such idle distractions.” She breaks inhospitable silence.

“Not a distraction, but a tool.” He corrects, disinterested in elaboration, but relents almost immediately.  He knows Igeyorhm’s persistence well. “The Crystal Bearer is useful yet; she bears Her Blessing but rejects her master.”

“You’ve created a beast.”  He truly believes the genius of this brash, foolhardy endeavor; Lahabrea has taken a step too far into the waters and is soon to be swept away on the current. “And you continue to feed it in hopes that it will some day be tamed.”

“Indeed.” Lahabrea agrees with boundless arrogance that only he dares exhibit. “As we have tamed the beasts of the thirteenth. They yet serve their purpose even if the star does not.”

His denouncement reveals welling anger at her questioning.

Lahabrea is mistaken if he believes Igeyorhm will cower as the Lessers might. She dares when all others will not and that is why she remains successful, even in her inadequacy. This _game_ cannot be continued, lest he risk their purpose.

“So fiercely you defend your pet – _Her_ pet.” That his eyes are so clouded defies belief.

Lahabrea is caught within a web of his making and fails to recognize it.

“Your fuss needlessly. She is mine.”  Scorn is all but invisible behind the possession in his tone, his hiss all the more justification of her anxieties.

Discussion is futile, Lahabrea as much the fool as the mortal he dallies with.

“I’ll have no hand in this foolishness.” There are other duties to which she can attend while Lahabrea indulges in momentary diversions.

“I do not need your approval.” He declares with finality, turning from Igeyorhm to follow his mortal.

Then he must see to the end of this game on his own.  If his pride costs him victory, as it once did she and Mitron, so be it.

May Zodiark return him to the righteous path.


	12. Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While drawing the Garlean forces away from the Scions at Castrum Centri, the Warrior of Light is summoned by a mysterious force.

Barely audible beneath the pound in your chest, the distant clank of armor and even patter of your footsteps echo through identical, endless corridors, the rhythmic sounds your sole companions as you flee the Garlean force stationed at Castrum Centri. More from worry than exhaustion your heart pounds – far too heavily, you should not be so worn - and the enervation only becomes more prominent with progression into the Castrum’s depths, in sync with an invisible pulse, a magnet beckoning like an invisible siren through the maze of technology. The unheard song all but overwhelms you, its force almost bringing you to your knees; neither pleasant nor painful, its esoteric power defies description, let alone comprehension, and through stubborn will alone do you drag yourself on, be it towards or against the call's source, walls bearing more of your weight than your feet.

The halls dim with progress, last remnants of fleeting light finally fading after at last reaching the end of your strange journey. How you recognize the correct room you cannot fathom, but the door before you slides open without input, revealing a chamber swathed in pure darkness.

You do not need light to understand the magnitude of the space you’ve entered; even in the silence, it breathes, each inhale drawing you in like a portal, each exhale a saturating tease at the aether enveloping you. Each of its breaths become more prominent as you approach the outline of the gigantic object that is the room’s sole centerpiece.

“So this is where you’ve been.” Even unable to see the speaker, controlled footfall gives weight to his presence, each step seemingly penetrating deeper through otherwise silent shadows than the last, until stopping within paces of you. ”What of the others?”

Thancred, _thank all the Gods he is well_. Glad as you are for his arrival, the pleasure immediately turns sour. “Why are you here? You must flee!”  

Thancred snaps you out of aether-disoriented reverie, consciousness returning as if awakening from a long rest, the previously-dominating pulse softening into a gentle beat.

“One obstacle yet remains. It seems you were of a similar mind.”

Of course he would be thinking ahead, but you are loath to admit that you cannot say the same of yourself, drawn to this place like vilekin to an incense trap.

Though you cannot see him, you know Thancred’s attention is as focused on the object as yours is, his voice distant and distracted as he continues. “He calls to you. Weapon.”

The revelation almost crushes you - _this_ is Weapon? Its silhouette towers, a barely visible sentinel swallowed by darkness. Externally, it seems as if Weapon’s activity has ceased, yet the intensity of its aether speaks otherwise, constantly scanning, as if ready to awaken at the drop of a gil.

It did not feel so overbearing in earlier encounters, even after absorbing Garuda and displaying the might of three primals; the beast pulses through the land, yearning for something eternally out of reach.

“It’s grown stronger.” You know not the truth of the words, but you’ve no other explanation for the magnitude of its enhancements.

He is behind you before you realize it; his feel somehow pushes away the Weapon’s persistent call and you instinctively draw into Thancred’s familiar, blanketing warmth.

“That it has. Yet the Weapon remains imperfect, its source well beyond the ken of the Garleans.”

If this is ‘imperfection’ you’ve no desire to learn of its full capabilities.  Weapon must needs to be stopped; you tell him as much.

“It’s possible to shut down the core.” _Shut down_. That bodes ill; Weapon might well be restarted by one with the appropriate skills.  But you’ve no idea how to go about destroying such a monstrosity; whatever Thancred knows is your only lead. “Piercing its barriers holds innate risk to the unattuned, but for one of your talents such walls pose no difficulties.”

How can Thancred know this? If he’s right, then ‘how’ doesn’t matter; Weapon must be stopped.

You needn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

“That you will.” His confidence is infectious and you swell with pride at his belief in you.  From behind, Thancred draws his face near enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath and each exhale lightly blows hairs from their place. “And I will lead you. You know what must be done.”

You know this feel, the way the barriers between mind and flesh disjoin as you anticipate the subsequent disorienting loss of control; you need his guidance less and less now, but you welcome his presence nonetheless, cool and warm simultaneously, slick and dry, molding within the crevices of your being as he leads you from your shell, surrounded with the aether that makes up his essence. You would taste it all and claim it for your own, swallow him as he does you.

“Concentrate.” He scolds, but ‘tis hard with him so near and Thancred surely knows it, as he pulls you even closer, drowning you so that you lose yourself within him; Weapon and the rest of Eorzea might as well be a gnat fluttering futilely against heavy mail, your sight blurring until what little color exists swirls away and you fall under his sway.

Drawing you into anchored safety, Thancred radiates blatant satisfaction; something pleases him in some indescribable way and his pleasure flows into you, warming you in anticipation as he guides, watchman in a storm.

Again Thancred’s knowledge proves infallible; the barrier – you only know of its presence because it clings like a spider’s web around you – falls easily to your Gift, settling you into the Weapon’s depths and, with it, an existence unlike anything you’ve ever known.

Colored and colorless, every intimate detail of Weapon’s holding bay is visible, but within the core, the Castrum ‘tis but a pebble on the road, your attentions drawn beyond limited mortal comprehension outside to the vibrant, aether-rich Mor Dhona – into Eorzea and beyond, seemingly through the edge of the world and the sea of aether itself without seeing anything at all, vision equally obscured by waves of unending power.

In the face of such an insurmountable force, a Spoken's individuality might well be a grain of sand against the night’s raging tide, Thancred’s presence the only buffer preventing you from being swept away.

Attention returned to your companion, his visage appears before you, his taste, his very life, the unique aether you know above all others drawing you more than any knowledge of his location.

Aided by the chaotic swirl of aether within you, using a sight without eyes, you learn him.

A red brand, of foreign pattern and indiscernible meaning.

A mask, burned into your memory by Hydaelyn Herself, given life at your side.

_Avatar of Shadow, whom death attendeth always._

“You are not Thancred.” Unfocused and wispy, your thoughts might well be words during resonance.

“No.” 

And he releases you into the Weapon’s Heart.


	13. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lahabrea's plans come to fruition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of lore here, a mix of Lahabrea from Praetorium and some specific information from the lore book. 3.4 Spoilers.

_Thump._

The core’s beat encompasses all in this secluded world.

_Thump._

Aether is as blood, a cyclic stream of undefined essence.

_Thump._

Traversing a labyrinth of veins and interlinked caverns without known destination, accompanied by naught save the faintest trace of light, you float.

The light provides no illumination, save infinitely mirrored reflection off crystalline walls. Through it, _they_ see, a million eyes and none, each towering crystal a pupil of liquid silver, clusters of pointed gaze witnessing your every thought. Memories reflect from unseen eyes as distantly as the Echo’s vision, familiar and not, uncertain fragments of the lost. 

In endless sight and ancient knowledge, they silently judge the intruder.

Like the Lady of the Vortex’s unrelenting gales shear away even the most unrelenting of cliff faces, so too does the spear of light flay its sole target, rending protective walls until transformed into the thinnest veils.

Shadow beckons, promising reprieve in unity.

 _Breathe_ , its whispered command, yet you’ve no lungs to do so.

Only in suffocation do you understand, desperation allowing the shadow’s congregation around the last remnants of failing webbing. Spreading like an inferno loosed on dry brush, the blanketing darkness swells, forming protective shields that swallow blades of intrusive light, igniting and mutating the corrupting influence before gifting you its transformed remains.

Bound within an endless cycle of shrouding dark and piercing light, your broken essence roams crystalline maws, curious gazes loosening their penetrating grasps, no longer condemning but _accepting,_ leaving only the rise and fall of the core’s gentle tide _._

No longer threatened by taint and indistinct from your will, the core guides through hypnotic song. You _know_ as the aether does and, though your influence, it seeks your return.  A host of boundless energy much like the Crystals of Light, its flow amplifies resonance, granting passage through the chaotic confluence of aether and leading you back to your flesh with the ease of an aetheryte’s beacon.

Even as it releases you into your mortal shell, its hold remains secure; having breathed its essence, it twines with yours until inseparability. Apathy greets the revelation, as ‘tis a bearer of comforts rather than horrors.

Unchanged perpetual darkness greets your return, the only evidence of time’s lack of passage as you journeyed, besides the feel of soft cloth enveloping –

Thancred.

_Ascian._

\- Enveloping you no differently than any other affectionate touch you’ve shared.

Pushing yourself from Lahabrea, you stumble to the floor, exhausted body unable to support your weight.

“Where –“ Shaky words barely form on your traitorously weak tongue. “What’ve you done with Thancred?”

Behind his brand’s fading glow, a familiar, satisfied smile plays at moist lips and once-comforting warmth is replaced with swelling shame that you’ve stared long enough to notice. You look away, stubbornly forcing yourself onto your knees with trembling arms.

“He remains where he’s been all this time.”

His voice, deeper than the one you once knew, but now familiar.

Secrets elusive to even the most learned of Sharlayan Archons, lessons the ungifted can have no concept of.

You should have realized – or perhaps you simply chose to ignore the inconsistencies out of convenience.

“Why?” Even as he demands you not be a mindless slave, he uses you the same as the rest. 

What does a servant of chaos gain from aiding you? Does he take pleasure at your torment?

Blinding fury floods your veins, temporarily restoring vitality to weakened muscles as you reject the creature that bears your companion’s flesh to your very core.

As if in response to your rage, the Weapon stirs at your back, biomechanical muscles tensing, the distinctive hum of Garlean – or perhaps Allagan - technology signifying the spread energy through its limbs.

“Reign your temper, lest the Weapon wake.  The Heart of Sabik heeds your call.” Lahabrea remains calm in the face of your wrath, describing the awakening in foreign terms as easily as he might the weather, unknowingly answering your unspoken queries.

 _This_ is his goal? This _Heart of Sabik_?

The Heart with which you now share a beat?

“You said I could stop it!”It seems foolish to make accusations about the Weapon after the day’s revelations, but the panicked, fury-laced condemnation slips from your tongue against your will. 

“Indeed; you’re quite capable of it.” He chides in that tone you know so well, from those lips that have whispered of the unknown and consoled when most needed.  “You think that I will avoid answering?  No, Bringer of Light. I do not cower like Hydaelyn.” Arm raised towards the weapon, Lahabrea’s distinct brand reveals itself once again, indistinguishable from his aether. “Watch and you will learn.”  

You feel more than see him, commanding aetherial touch, directed not towards you but instead the pulsing core now known to be the Heart of Sabik. Seemingly a permanent home to an obscure weave of your consciousness, his presence soothes you - the Heart - as one might console a troubled infant.

Almost instantaneously the Weapon stops, the whir of its innards stilling, its mechanical muscles loosening, and glowing bands of aether that trail its flesh dimming as if they had ne’er risen. Whatever Lahabrea’s presence inside the Heart triggered, he spoke true: the menace is silenced. ‘Tis unfortunate you can’t well ask him to repeat the process.

Even unseen in the darkness, Lahabrea’s smirk is undeniable.

“Everything you wish to know - the knowledge is yours by right as much as ‘tis mine.”

He speaks of sundering, the shattering of worlds - fourteen in all.

Knowledge he has groomed you to understand; Hydaelyn’s selfishness, imbalance, and collapse, incomprehensible truths so undeniably familiar that rejection is illogical.

Of the role you have been chosen for – and the one he has – two sides of a gil, both struggling for perceived righteous causes.

Of a solution.

Of the Ardor.

Answers you needed, with implications too painful to consider.

For the briefest moment, you doubt; not simply stopping at your heart, Lahabrea seeks control of your mind, all the tales he has told in preparation for this moment, an accumulation of falsehoods intent for manipulation.

But even in stubborn rejection, a niggling whisper refuses to be pushed aside, a hesitant acknowledgement of the possibility that Lahabrea speaks truly.

_Why did Hydaelyn not answer your pleas?_

There’s yet a way to ascertain his honesty. Perhaps this, too, is his plan, but you’re no longer a naïve child, with resonance so uncontrolled that you will lose yourself without his aid. If an Ascian is an individual, then surely –

Familiarity distinguishes Lahabrea's unprotected mind from the surrounding aether readily, connection to the Heart as your guide. Slipping into him like a well-worn boot, what little knowledge you have of your goal leads your search until you’re finally overwhelmed by disorienting incapacitation.

_\- This is not his place; he comes only to witness Her touch._

_To reaffirm that which he intimately knows._

_Endless white, particles of the world’s essence peel from their places like paint exposed to the elements.  Dancing through the air, the dreadful snowfall dissolves before reaching the ground, fading into nothingness._

_Beasts roam the land, fleeting remnants of those few mortals who survived Her flood.  Devouring one another, the creatures remain eternally unfulfilled, no aether remaining inside their empty husks to satiate them._

_“You’ve come to mock me.” A deep, harsh voice; Lahabrea names him Mitron, but gifts his ally only the basest acknowledgement._

_Nothingness, a void no different from the Thirteenth. The First steadily collapses, soon to be eternally removed from the cycle._

_Lahabrea must needs work even harder, so that this_ never _happens again.  Two worlds are lost -_

With thoughts unfinished, the vision ends, cleanly severed, denying you further access to Lahabrea’s memories. Compared to the pit that forms in your breast, the Echo’s daze is but a gentle breeze; Lahabrea's dreadful truths overwhelm all physical ailments.

“This is my star as much as yours. I will see that the Source suffers no more from Her taint; you _will_ return Hydaelyn to the rightful order.” Lahabrea concludes with impassioned stubbornness in place of the vitriol he earlier demonstrated while speaking of Hydaelyn’s nature.

“You think I will aid you? After you-“ Even if Hydaelyn is the cause of those horrors, even if there is worsening imbalance, he cannot believe you will forgive him so easily. “- After everything?”

Lahabrea is so focused on his duty that nothing else matters save success.

Perhaps not so different from you.

You almost retch.

“You would condemn me? After I have done naught but aid you? Stayed at your side when the others did not bother to seek you out, even after learning of Garuda’s fall?”

He toyed with your emotions and manipulated your beliefs, no matter he right he is.

“I was led to believe you wished to protect this star. You know as well as I that this imbalance cannot continue.”

He _knows_ what you’ve seen – aye,  Lahabrea feeds your desire to indulge the forbidden, confident enough that whatever you learn from his past only furthers his cause.

“You want to destroy Hydaelyn!”

“I will _Rejoin_ Her.” He corrects. “Even if I still my hand, all will inevitably collapse without the One True God.”

“And does this _Rejoining_ demand our intimacy?” So petty a grudge might be insignificant compared to the fate of stars and yet –

If nothing else, Lahabrea seems driven by reason and spite rather than cruelty, ‘tis unfathomable why he plays such games when his goals are just as easily accomplished without the pretense of affection.

“’Twas your choice to approach me while I bore this flesh. And both of ours to continue after that night.”

You were a fool, perhaps, to woo him in fear and desperation, but he’s right. ‘Twas your decision and no other’s. You are no mindless tool - not Hydaelyn’s and certainly not Lahabrea’s.

Your choices and mistakes are you own; would you relinquish truth's whispers, knowing their source? Heeded his knowledge, knowing its bearer?

You grew fond of his touch, fully aware he was not the Thancred you once knew.

Squirming under Lahabrea’s indomitable, hidden gaze, shame pierces your soul as easily a sword through flesh.

You hear it before you see it; an erratic hum, silenced just moments before, courses prickles down your back, Weapon again rising alongside the agonized Heart.

_Later -_

Your suffering must be endured later, you cannot risk the Weapon’s awakening.

Resolve steeled, you push your emotions aside.  Lahabrea is as unmovable as a mountain; to face such a foe, immortal and ancient as the star itself, you must be equally rigid. “I won’t let you succeed.”

Blinding lights flicker on through the facility, accompanied by the all but incapacitating shriek of an alarum that interrupts any further argument.

You draw your weapon in uncertainty. Surrounded by enemies, still lethargic from your interaction with the Heart, you can but gamble to buy time; the Weapon might well be your only ally in the Castrum – an uncontrollable beast at that.

Be for weal or woe, Lahabrea proves irritated at the interruption and turns to the incoming intruders with a clenched jaw. “They’ve found you.”

“We’re grateful for your assistance.” The approaching officer salutes Lahabrea, believing the Ascian to have aided him.

The Garlean might well not have spoken, for all Lahabrea heeds him, a continued pregnant silence permeating the containment bay.  The Garleans know full well of your reputation, if not your current weakness, and even in their own Castrum, they would rightly believe you a formidable challenge against so few soldiers. They prove wise enough not to engage, appealing their ally instead.  “Ascian, you are to deliver the Eikon Slayer to the Legatus.”

“Go. I will see to them.” He speaks his alien tongue in place of common Eorzean; ally yet not to the Garleans, it seems, and unwilling to divulge his plans. Yet with the approaching clank of armor and distantly echoing footfall, there’s no time to contemplate the revelation’s ramifications.

Seconds tick by as if they are bells, your eyes darting over the bay’s occupants.

 _Gods._   You have to stop Weapon, still half-awakened and docile.  You have to stop _Lahabrea_.  You’ve no idea how to do either. To leave is to ensure Lahabrea’s success, but you’re no fool; with opponents on all sides, only one option remains.

You flee, leaving Weapon and Ascian behind to catch up with the others, praying you are not making a terrible mistake.


	14. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lahabrea is pleased; the Bringer of Light is consoled by Minfilia.

The star trembles, quivering waves coursing its thinning barriers; that which was stolen is soon to be returned and the cycle will begin anew, Lahabrea tending the gardens of man until once again the season for tilling arrives.

“The Weapon confounds them. It searches futilely and refuses to heed any commands. ‘Tis docile, for the time, but there’s worry –“ Hesitation betrays Pentacle, uncertainty a result of nonsensical tales spread by Igeyorhm, undoubtedly.  She is in no position to criticize Lahabrea. “Master –“

“I will oversee the Garleans. And the Bringer of Light.” Lahabrea does not hide his irritation and ends the report with dismissal. With or without servants, he will see his role to completion.

The Legatus proves conveniently dull company.  Perfectly monotonous, with all the predictability one might expect from Her children.

As it should be; this seed is unable to root outside of its plot.

Inevitably, his thoughts are drawn to her, of past and future both, of how she overcomes her master’s obfuscation.

The Bringer of Light will return to him, bearing Hydaelyn’s remains.

And then –

The tale is unwritten, save that all must serve. Her Chosen will soon have her redemption.

He smiles.

The hammer falls; one by one the fragments shatter.

The others must needs hasten; the Source readies.

_\--_

Empty.

Nay, not empty, you all but burst. Longing fills your breast; raw and painfully disconcerting, your body craves the Heart, its absence a wound. Bleeding from within, you’ve all but lost a limb and, with neither salve nor poultice to staunch its ooze, you can only lessen the urge by pushing it from your mind. The effort proves temporary and futile, as yearning is replaced immediately with shame; unsure whether to cry or scream, the erratic contradictions make clearing emotion’s fog an impossibility.

“Do not blame yourself; you could not have known.” Minfilia breaks overbearing silence with attempted consolation, her fingers toying unconsciously at the crude crystal on the desk between you. As different as Lahabrea from Thancred, the crystal of darkness - you now recognize the true nature of the silvery gem Lahabrea once showed you - should be full of life and cyclic, little different from Her crystals, but this model is dull, broken, empty -

Like the First.

Perhaps such differences are best left unmentioned.

You knew Thancred was not the same, but ignored it out of willful, deluded ignorance and desire for his offerings, knowledge and companionship both. Lahabrea rewarded loyalty by granting your every wish, furthering your dependence - if at times with a reprimand.

You are no better than those you’ve condemned for succumbing to Ascian promises.

“He had access to Thancred’s memories. He fooled me, as well.”

Minfilia means well, but her kind words only serve to emphasize your shame. 

Lahabrea did not pretend to be Thancred, not with you. There was no mention of ‘times past,’ nor familiar flirtation.

He treated you as an equal more than anyone else on your journey and taught you to question those who would use you –

Question everyone but him.

Putting such a twisted relationship to words is an impossibility; you’ve no desire to try and instead direct an abrupt change in subject.

“When you were imprisoned in the Castrum, did you feel it?” Minfilia seems confused. “The magnetic pulse – did Weapon’s call not attract you?”  An undeniable lure with reach well beyond Centri’s walls.  Surely she must know what you speak of.

The Heart of Sabik.

Attention temporarily returned to it, the Heart beckons once again, reigniting the memory of piercing Light, comforting dark, and the burn of Lahabrea’s success.  Ignoring the Heart’s call proves even more of a challenge than before; it summons with such ferocity that you’d rightly be disturbed were it anything else, yet sharing it will, you can but fiercely agree.

“I felt no such thing.  With your Crystals of Light, perhaps you are more attuned to the presence of darkness than I.”

Minfilia leaves the rest unsaid, but it lays heavily between you. Your closeness with its Ascian master might well be the cause.

The tool in which his plans rest upon must needs be attuned to the darkness.

But if you are so vital, why aid your escape? “What do we know of Ascians? Their goals, their master.”

This Heart of Sabik, the Weapon’s core – there’s something you don’t know.

How does your entrapment further his cause?

There’s yet much to learn; Lahabrea has told you his side, what of Hydaelyn’s?

 _She refused to answer_ slithers the traitorous observation from the back of your mind. You push it down, but it niggles all the same, gnawing away at your determination as a hedgemole might a farmer’s crops.

“Master?” A fool mistake; of course Minfilia wouldn’t know of their God’s existence. Her eyes narrow; she won’t let you avoid elaboration. “We’ve shared all we know. Bringers of chaos.”

“We know nothing of their purpose?” You press; surely the Scions are not so ignorant of the cause they fight for –

Just as you once were.

He opened your eyes, not blinded them.

“We know naught save that they sow chaos, whispering forbidden knowledge to those seeking it.  What has he told you?”  She reigns her curiosity as best she can, but it quickly overcomes disapproval.

“They act to return their God from Hydaelyn’s banishment.”

“God?”

You explain fate’s morose tale, Lahabrea’s ‘rightful order,’ and undeniable imbalance.

Minfilia’s frown belies cautious consideration before settling on incredulity. “If the Gods of Light and Darkness were once as one and Hydaelyn banished her counterpart, surely there was a reason.”

She’s right to doubt, for even you disbelieved Lahabrea until faced with a vision of the destruction Her power wrought.

There must be something you can say that will convince her.

“He knew of the Echo; Lahabrea could control it, draw upon it at will. He knew of its true nature and –”

Further attempts gain no more ground than the previous and you withdraw into silence.

“I know what he says must seem very –“ Recognizing your uncertainty, Minfilia rethinks her approach, speaking like one might soothe an orphaned child without concept of death.  “- We must needs be wary of his whispers. Through these secrets, promises of knowledge and power, the Ascians lure their thralls.”

She speaks kindly but firmly in warning, pleading for you not to become overconfident; even Echo-blessed Crystal Bearers are not above such temptations.

You know better. Lahabrea never promised anything. He tempered you as a weapon and shared when convenient, but he never -

After everything you still come to his defense, even if you are a fool to do so; Minfilia’s right, undoubtedly, and mayhaps you did succumb to Ascian temptation, but you know what you’ve seen.

A broken, failing world, perhaps beyond saving.

Hydaelyn surely has Her reasons, well-meaning actions that led to this predicament, but intent changes nothing about the result.

Minfilia’s eyes reveal what words do not. She does not believe you are of right mind regarding Lahabrea; elaboration will only condemn you further.

Her rejection stings as sharply as the lances of light within the Heart of Sabik.

You’ve used his secrets, to avoid conflicts and learn truths, and you’d use them again.

‘Tis impossible to explain without being seen as seduced.

Operation Archon – this is your battle. Doubt in their champion can ruin everything.  If they will not believe, you must play the part of the hero they need whilst pursuing your own agenda.

Pitiful.  How tainted are you, that you fear for others’ trust?

_Taint._

You never felt so ashamed with him. In your ignorance he promoted growth; there is no shame in truth.

“We will see to the histories.  If there is anything on Zodiark, we’ll find it.”  Minfilia attempts consolation but it feels shallow; she intends to convey comfort and seemingly expects to find little of value. 

You do your best to smile with a confident nod.

Even when they doubt, you cannot question yourself; you’ve a duty, just as Lahabrea does.

Whatever remains between you, no matter his plans –

The core is part of you.

And ‘tis past time you exploited whatever leverage you now hold over an Ascian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it seem like the WoL didn't get a lot of closure to her dilemma?  
> This is intentional. Discomfort does not simply go away after a few hours, or a chapter, and everything is well again.
> 
> While writing second person, my goal is to remain neutral. There is no way for me to please everyone and encompass every reaction with a character so loosely defined. Instead I can only draw upon the character development found within this story.


	15. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bringer of Light faces Gaius and Weapon within the depths of Praetorium.

"Tell me...for whom do you fight?"

Very few can claim the alarming boldness of Gaius van Baelsar, decrying the motives of an adversary they know little of.

He offers a question with no true answer. You know this manner of conversational manipulation well, Lahabrea has seen to that.  'Tis easy enough to settle upon Eorzea as a response; you'll not allow your means to be questioned by the Garlean when the very fabric of Hydaelyn is at stake.

"Unity forged in falsehoods." Behind van Baelsar's disgust lies pity.  "Faith built upon deception. A cobweb of lies. To believe in _Eorzea_ is to believe in _nothing_."

You need no pity from one who seeks to conquer a land of those he deems barbarians. Eorzea is your home, for weal or woe.

He continues  "The beast tribes of this land summon gods to fight in their stead. Hatreds upon hatreds unending."

In the past you might have heeded him.

Gauis speaks his proposal with all the charisma one expects of a Garlean Legatus.  His argument is backed by undeniable rationale and his confidence easily sways the oblivious, yet Lahabrea’s polluting whispers underlie his words, easily recognizable half-truths of looming, elusive threats and Eorzea’s blight.

"You lack the strength to rely on yourselves and so you offer pleas to false deities all the same as those tribes you despise. Your 'gods' are no different. Beasts that bleed the land dry."

How right Gaius is about the unending cycle, but Garlean control is no more a solution than destruction.

You tell him as much, knowing full well his shadowy puppeteer sneers at your every word.

Gaius acknowledges your refusal with unexpected grace, but even with acceptance he shows no hesitation in summoning his tool – familiar and alien both, biomechanical muscles pulsing with ancient energies thick enough to sear the air.

So near and fully illuminated, the Weapon proves a truly indomitable beast, seemingly capable of crushing you within its claws as easily as it did Garuda.

You’ve no reason to fear, yet no matter logic’s dictation, the dread in your stomach swells as your attacks bounce off the creatures hide as harmlessly as a pebble off of Ul’dah’s walls, leaving Weapon entirely unscathed and your strength slowly fading.

Aye, an indomitable beast. _Your_ indomitable beast, you can but hope, should the path to the Heart reveal itself.

If it cannot be destroyed, then it must be stilled.

Even shrouded by labyrinthine darkness doubtless of Lahabrea's making, the Heart sings, its aether clawing at the impenetrable barrier. There must be a path, a weakness to exploit, a crack in the dam so that it might spill free and reunite with you.

Yet try as you might, the swirl of darkness - and the Weapon's barriers - remain untouched. Even if only a product of imagination, wisps of Lahabrea's laughter fill your ears at your ineptitude and your teeth clench in stubborn determination.

Beyond the laughter, beyond harsh breaths and battle cries, beyond even the whir of aether and the clang of mechanical joints, you hear it. A whisper, quiet and beyond your ken, little more than the first hints of a breeze, calls you, and with it comes light, a flood of foreign aether that chills like fresh snowmelt in spring.

Blinding light envelops everything within sight, piercing deeply enough that any remaining occupants of the Praetorium must surely be swallowed.  Hydaelyn Herself peels the shield of darkness from Weapon, aiding Her champion even when you question and distrust, granting you the greatest gift in Her power: opportunity.

Weapon screams as your first blow lands and with it comes the taste of success on your tongue.  All thoughts of light and darkness fade as you dance with the beast, evading familiar attacks you've long mastered. Its hide is strong, but you are stronger; the Garleans' knowledge of the Allagan tool is only half-complete, and Weapon is unable to reach its full potential.

Stolen aether writhes from the Weapon as if its own entity, the last vestiges of false gods torn away as Gaius' control wanes; Garuda's shriek no more than a whimpering wail, Titan's weight little heavier than the armor on your back, Ifrit's inferno the embers of dying flame, energy siphoned away by ancient technology - nay, the enigmatic Heart of Sabik itself, as if it feasts upon the flesh of the very beast it is intended to empower, answering each attack with an assault from the inside, rendering the Garleans' secret weapon little more than an oversized ceruleum menace, ripped asunder from external and internal assault.

Erratic, uncontrollable, expanding, the Heart sings in anticipation, emphasized by your excitement; still outside your reach and untouched by Her light, the veil of darkness remains yet impenetrable.

Even without aether sense, Gaius quickly concludes the situation no longer favors him, his bellows of rage audible even above the uncontrolled spill of ceruleum.

Ascian and Garlean converse, but their words might well be wind. The Heart beckons, siren that it is, darkness congregating around Weapon like blood in a wound.

"The Blessing of Light. . ." It comes as no surprise when Lahabrea reveals himself; bearing unmasked scorn, he looks down upon the faltering Weapon and Legatus before his attentions turn to you, lips tilting in baffling satisfaction that courses prickles over your flesh. Was Weapon not the tool that Calamity rested upon? Lahabrea has lost the Garlean force and he has lost the Allagan Weapon, that he should be so pleased at the outcome of this battle spreads sinking dread within your breast.

"You needn't worry. The crystal and its bearer shall trouble us no longer." The utter certainty in his words stills your breath.  "The Ultima Weapon is host to a power of which you are still ignorant. A sliver is more than enough."

Lahabrea meets your eyes, anticipatory excitement barely hidden in his gaze. "The Heart of Sabik has lain dormant for eons, but no longer."

His anticipation turns predatory and without a word Thancred's body disappears; shadowy aether spreads as ocean mists are wont to, billowing and enclosing Weapon like a sheet. What remains of the shroud of darkness embracing the Heart parts before Lahabrea as easily as lace to a dagger and with a mechanical roar, the final barrier between Weapon and core fades, giving Ultima Weapon the freedom to draw upon the unbridled strength of the Heart of Sabik.

Drawing power within its breast, Weapon stalls, vulnerable and unable to act beyond draining the seemingly unlimited reserves stored within its core.  You know the untold depths of the Heart - you've still time. The beast will not drain the Heart quickly.

The path is open, should you but take the step. The connection between Weapon and core must be severed.

You close your eyes, giving into the barely repressible yearning plaguing you since Castrum Centri. With sight unseeing you know its presence; it pleads for reunion, drawing you as undeniably as Hydaelyn Herself so that you once again float infinite crystalline halls, seeing with all the eyes that once bared their judgement upon you, reveling alongside it as temptation fades, replaced with exaltation.

Your satisfaction is dampened by belated recognition; a foreign presence intrudes within the Heart, manipulating it - manipulating _you_ \- and ensuring Weapon succeeds. Lahabrea's once-calming touches now stimulate the core of aether, commanding efficient transfer to the Weapon, easing the transition with soothing unspoken commands.

The Heart may once have welcomed him, but you will not. Lahabrea is a corruption that must needs be purified; fury forces your hand and with the strength of the Heart at your call, expelling him is no more difficult than wiping water from a window.

He'll not control you again.

Free of Ascian exploitation, only briefly do you succumb to self-indulgence before celebratory congratulations are cut short.  With Lahabrea's expulsion, the free flow of aether stalls, returning again to cyclic flow.

Panic spreads from you to the Heart as the shroud of darkness rights itself; unable to escape, overwhelming pressure digs into the unrelenting barrier that forbids passage, no matter how great the force. A prison of infinite space and none, of endless chaotic repetition, of piercing light and the most comforting shadow.

Uncontrolled resonance, sundering mind from flesh. Just as Lahabrea once warned.


	16. Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lahabrea enacts the final stages of his plan.

Even basking within the depths of His embrace, Hydaelyn accompanies Her champion.

False Gods ever prove themselves fools.

But Lahabrea gambled on the Mothercrystal's foolishness, a coin since fallen in his favor, and he is not wont to let opportunity waste away.

The champion of Light's momentary panic serves him well. Lahabrea’s barriers will fall erelong, when mortal rationality overcomes the Heart and she manipulates her Gift to break free, but it rewards him the time he needs to complete the union.

Would that mortals only exhibit patience; with Weapon momentarily calmed, van Baelsar’s attentions turn to the fallen Eorzean at his feet.

"Bind the woman; her gifts may yet hold the answers we seek."

Lahabrea has been agreeable thus far, but he'll not slave for mortal whims. "She’s not to be touched."

"You would defend her?  The Eikon Slayer is all that stands in our way!"

The Garleans’ way, perhaps, but all remaining pieces are in place.

The barrier tremors, releasing a wave of uncontrollable aether as the Heart commands its release.

 _What is she_ -?

The Heart influences her, if she uses its strength in place of her Gift in attempt to earn her freedom. Surely, she’ll soon recognize her folly; when the container shatters –

Perceptible even with sight, the Heart’s silent rumble rends the Source’s barriers. Weapon reawakens and, with it, the Heart sings its victory, drawing from the surrounding land.

 _Fool,_ just like her fool master.

Little time remains. He kneels; bereft of the soul’s essence, the flesh he intimately knows is unfamiliar and all but dead, skin barely reacting to the trace of his fingers, shallow, rhythmic breaths the sole evidence that the host yet lives.

Breaths uninterrupted by touch, Lahabrea summons the prize he knows rests dormant in her breast, hidden to all but those with the knowledge to call upon it. An amalgamation of smaller crystals, unified and awakened as singular within a chosen champion, the crystal of Light heeds him, weakened and fading within his grasp.

With a sliver of aether it’s done, crystal of Light bound to the Heart as its owner is.

A flash of aether blinds all his senses. The crystal digs into his palm as the Heart tears its shroud of darkness, its tenuous connection to the crystal of Light seemingly awakening it anew.  Weapon screams as the Heart revels; free from its restraints, it pours out like a sea’s mist, overcoming all Hydaelyn it meets, slicking the Praetorium’s walls and floor, claiming it as its own, leaving little but black void in its wake.

 _"Mmph."_ She awakens from her detachment - far too late, far too foolish - the hurricane of aether flooding over her, rending exposed flesh raw.

The Heart rages beyond all control, driven by the Crystal Bearer’s determined desire to end Garlean occupation, the Weapon conduit for its release.

“Curse you, Ascian!”  Panic rings clear in van Baelsar. “How much destruction must be wreaked before you are sated?”

Would that Lahabrea claim this victory as his own, but the Crystal Bearer steals it from his grasp.  Even without intention she interferes, Weapon’s uncontrolled roar and Hydaelyn’s rupture far from his purpose.

A hollow victory, but if she instead offers Rejoining, he’ll not deny the gift.

Untouched by catastrophic aether, Lahabrea clutches the crystal of light; when her flesh falls, she will return to him.

“Only as much as necessary for my God to be reborn.” Lahabrea deigns answer, though he doubts van Baelsar hears him above the chaos.

With Weapon as his catalyst, Lahabrea takes the Heart within as only he can.

“From the deepest pit of the seven Hells, to the pinnacle of the Heavens, the world shall tremble!”

Aether wails.

_“Ultima.”_

And Hydaelyn screams.


	17. Failures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crystal Bearer awakens to an alien world.

The Great Beyond burns.

Red and black and brown sway through blurred vision, the crackle of flames audible even above heavy breaths.

Vague memories of panic, pressure, and relief are your only explanations as to the fate of the Garleans and Weapon; ash and smoke fill your lungs and of your circumstances you know, only, that you yet live.

Mayhap you shouldn’t, if your broken surroundings are indication of the apocalyptic power released during your lapse in consciousness, but you do.

Whatever caused the Praetorium’s destruction, be it Weapon, Lahabrea, or some unknown entity, if you remain whole, there is chance it does as well. There’s no time for lazing about, the threat of unknown power as dire as the broken chamber’s instability, clear even through smoke’s shroud.

Bile rises in your throat and flesh burns as you push yourself up from the floor, body consumed by searing agony akin to having torn your every muscle; spiraling dizziness renders you unable to bear your weight and you collapse with a frustrated curse, landing hard on your side.

A new spike of pain runs from your hand up your arm; different than the burn previously, you immediately unclench your fists and roll onto your back; a tiny object with jagged edges tears into the otherwise unwounded skin of your hand before falling to the ground, smeared with fresh droplets of blood. 

Silver and black, you’d know the small crystal that reveals itself anywhere.  The Heart of Sabik – or what little remains of it, drips blood; thick fluid falls from its corners, but never quite meets the ruined ground before crimson dissipates into swirling black mist.

Disorienting and hypnotizing, you watch as the mist within the Heart coalesces and settles into a gentle, lapping tide, bound by its silvery walls.  As if satisfied with the offering, the Heart fades soon after, returning to its home in your breast, empty of all save your essence.

Time's passage remains unclear, measured only through controlled breaths.  When the pulsing burn fades enough that you can lift yourself to your feet – more cautiously, preparing for the inevitable ache – you find your body hale and whole, untouched save the tatter of your armor, cloth so worn it barely remains at all.

“What is this?”  The words sound harsh from your raw throat, painful as if you’ve been screaming. You can’t recall any such thing.

“Ultima.” Jolting you to immediate attention, Lahabrea floats into your field of view.  How long he has silently waited, watching, or why, you cannot say. “Only through Hydaelyn’s interference does the land remain whole.”

The brief flick of his wrist hitches your breath in your chest, but there is no aether nor assault in the motion, all that follows is a quiet cling on the ground below you.  At your feet rests a crystal of light – yours, you know its feel well – though when Lahabrea came into possession of it is a mystery.

He turns, signifying his intention to leave, almost mocking in his unspoken demand; he could easily teleport without explanation, but Lahabrea _wants_ you to question– and you’re more than willing to oblige.

It’s not over, not yet.

“That’s it?”  After everything, he’s just going to leave? He has used you – taught you – yet he chooses not to further pursue his goals?

_What are you missing?_

“Was this not your desire? To free Eorzea from van Baelsar and banish its primal threat?” He turns back to scold you, like a parent might condescend a spoiled child. “We have seen to that and you deign ask for _more_?”

“No.” You rasp; your duty has ever been to protect Hydaelyn.  Lahabrea made certain that is the mission you heed above all others.

“Nor was it mine.” Lahabrea’s admission belies emotion you expect least of him: regret.  He senses your confusion and tools his expression to satisfaction; you doubt you’ll enjoy what he says next. “But all will be well in time.  You accepted His heart as your own. What She gifts you, returns to Him.”

Hydaelyn freezes around you as Lahabrea’s explanation churns in your mind, mixing with memories and knowledge and –

_Gods, it all makes sense._

He doesn’t _want_ you to come to harm; connected to both his master and Hydaelyn, only possible through his carefully nurtured acceptance, Lahabrea demands you grow stronger to draw more from Hydaelyn – so that you might feed his one true God.

In the midst of enlightenment, you have never been more blinded, path more obscured.

You can’t just _not_ fight against the forces that threaten your land, not after what you’ve seen.

And yet –

Only the Praetorium’s warning rumble, almost strong enough to knock you off your feet, clears all-consuming haze.

A quick glance at your surroundings gives justification to your fear; the building will not hold much longer.

“Do not waste the life your Mistress has granted you, leave this place.”

He speaks again, and you feel the pull of his aether, soon to teleport.

No. Not yet, he can’t leave.

You might have freed yourself from his influence, but you’ve business that’s yet to be concluded – even if it’ll never truly end so long as you both live. But if you lose this chance, you know not if you’ll have another opportunity.

You must needs save Thancred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Zahira for reading through and providing feedback before I posted.


	18. Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crystal Bearer confronts Lahabrea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left!

Ash dances like snow above the lick of flames, playing on the few slight gusts that break through the barrier of smoke into the Praetorium’s depths.  In the tempest’s midst smoke swirls and, like a wild dog on the hunt, fire nips, looking for opportunity to overtake its prey; a slicked sheen of sweat forms at your brow, droplets doing little against the encroaching heat.

To the fiercest fire of all you’re drawn, a helpless vilekin in light’s fatal clutches.

You know all of him at once, the world still as you analyze your opponent; purple patterns adorning black, small ornamental wings and delicate claws, the swirl of aether, seemingly independent of the storm around him.

A foreign, dissonant entity, less than a man.

It must be this way; any remnants of traitorous emotion are unaffordable weakness in direct confrontation.

Dourness reveals Lahabrea’s dissatisfaction at the tale’s conclusion. Even having attained victory, he yearns for yet more – not entirely unlike the mortals he despises. In his brief hesitation, he grants opportunity.

You’ve much to despise Lahabrea for – and equal amounts of thanks to offer, for through his tutelage you _know_ him. He is both firm darkness seeping through your veins and chaotic inferno scorching the world, at once smooth to the touch but impossible to grasp.

No matter how large the crowd, in resonance you’d recognize his essence instantly.

Blinded by dizzying, spiraling resonance, fire and darkness blur; in the Echo's throes, Lahabrea is everything, the jolt of your knees hitting the floor barely acknowledged beyond the rich taste of his aether.

You come alive in an aetherial sea – but not Hydaelyn’s; clear blues replace muddled reds and a faint hum emanates from every ilm of your surroundings. Stray aether caresses flesh like slight winds over an abandoned field, stillness in motion. Thancred’s mindspace sleeps, subdued by greater forces than its own, a small, silent bubble in soul’s sea, faintly and futilely struggling against the foreign entities struggling for dominance.

Shadows mingle around and through you, a sensation more than a sight, as much alien to this place as you. As deeply comforting as it is repulsive, darkness visibly congregates, manipulated by memory you know so well; even as you face death’s embodiment, adorned in his black robes and red brands, Lahabrea flows like wind around you, a subtle reminder that there is no true form in this abstract space.

Lahabrea does not speak; he does not need to.  In the soulspace, outside the tiny, compressed bubble, the Echo severs all barriers; as powerless against him as he is you, extracting an equal is an impossibility.

He knows your intentions and you equally know his assuredness – and his curiosity.

What do you seek to accomplish by meeting him here? He muses.  Do you hope to wrest the host from his grasp? He derives some pleasure from the revelation.

The similarities between you are abhorrent, but you understand his game: a distraction to weaken your will, so that 'tis within his power to remove the weaker element.

Even if there are few differences between you in this space – Lahabrea’s mocking reminder will not let you forget it – you are not like him. You are come free Thancred, not make him your thrall.

Like struggling to climb a cliff face lacking outcroppings and footholds, you find no weakness in Lahabrea’s grasp; even were you to strip Lahabrea away from the core, you’d equally open yourself to vulnerability, dragged alongside him until you grasp him more than Thancred, placing yourself fully at his mercy.

All the while, Lahabrea observes.

Repeatedly you prod and without fail your search remains inconclusive. Unified amalgamation as you are, whatever is manipulated, all else is as well.

_Of course._

The satisfied revelation draws Lahabrea’s full attentions, irritation quickly overcoming predatory curiosity at your persistence.

 _Fool,_ he names you.

You’ve only ever proven him correct, you’ll not stop now.

If all is shared in this space, to remove Lahabrea, you must remove yourself.

Regret comes later; now’s not the time for hesitation.

Let there remain no indistinction.

You deepen your resonance, so that you course his veins as he once coursed yours.

You fall more than dive into the uncontrolled hurricane of black aether. Like the churning of a storming sea, you lose yourself in erratic pulsing waves. In unpredictability they crash against you, a disorienting pressure that sends logic and consciousness reeling. A frantic, futile struggle for a sense of self, a swim towards safety with no surface to break.

 _Madness!_ You know not whether ‘tis his curse or yours.

An undeniable truth, but you're well beyond turning back. You instead breathe yet deeper of him, embracing smothering light and blinding dark.

_Irreversible!_

Through the waves you tumble, until only the blackness of mutual unconsciousness remains.

In a dream that is not a dream you awaken, deep within a memory of blurred, ancient knowledge, its source unknown.

A weapon to banish the darkness -

Hydaelyn’s gift.

Surely, She did not intend it to be used in this way.

Again, you open your eyes, taking in the man before you.

You’ve long known how to create them  - these spears that burned you in the Heart of Sabik; having intimate familiarity with Her white, searing light, its shape is easily molded by will alone.

If Lahabrea attempts to stall the blade’s creation, you know not, but ‘tis too late - far too late.

You’ve ever had one goal; now you finally see it through.

The blade of light pierces your breast.

_No!_

You barely hear him above the screams.

Writhing in the light, you are burned from the soulspace, like infection from a wound; the force blocks your resonance, slamming you back to your body, regardless of your will.

Squirming, blinded by light you cannot see, you retch dry on the floor as the Praetorium’s flames surge around you. You barely feel the stinging tears that stream down your face until droplets spill onto your hands; the world burns – and you along with it.

And yet –

At the cusp of blurred vision, barely visible between rapid blinks, rests an unconscious Thancred, still garbed alien robes, but clearly absent of the Ascian who plagued him for so long.

You’ve done it.

A bubble of laughter forms in your breast from relief, swallowed quickly by a choked sob as you stumble more than crawl or walk over to Thancred’s unconscious form. Clutching your chest, each breath harder than the last, you lift him as best you can, pressing a finger against the linkshell you share with the Scions.

‘Tis time to go home.


	19. Epilogue: The End of an Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bringer of Light struggles with her emotions.
> 
> Lahabrea finds an equal in the most unexpected of individuals.
> 
> _For the end of one tale is but the beginning of another._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

Flowers have their own language – or so you’re told.

Living fully up to the reputation of Sapphire Exchange traders, the merchant peddles her wares with ferocity more akin to a primal than a child of man.  White was the first color presented, a flower for friendship and recovery; blue was next, a rarity with pedigree breeding, costly enough that it flatters through price alone.

In both you saw only emptiness.

Obstinately rejecting purples and reds, you finally settle on a bouquet of yellow daisies. They signify purity, the woman explains, elaborating on their history. You offer bored nods, heeding not a lick of it, more than ready to conclude your business in Ul'dah.

After brief thanks, you escape the markets with due haste, dismissing the persistent nag of merchants pleading for your patronage as you return to the Chocobo keeper for the journey to the Waking Sands.  The chocobo porter moves more slowly than you’re accustomed to, but you’re in no hurry. In this new era of peace, you’ve few assignments, though you’ve an inkling that ‘tis more Minfilia’s doing rather than a lack of chores to be done.

They’ve found no answers, nor evidence to corroborate your story - _Lahabrea's_ story.  Though not apathetic to your warnings, Minfilia assigns only harmless errands while you ‘recover,’ as if to distract you from the tales Lahabrea has woven.

Mayhap she’s right to fear continued Ascian influence, the soft pulse in the depths your breast reminds you of the dark you bear, even now, but if the Scions continue to turn a blind eye to this tangled web of history, then you must take history into your own hands.

Your arrival at Vesper Bay is uncelebrated, though you’d have it no other way; heroism’s taste yet remains a bitter draught. Offering greetings to familiar faces, you slip into the Waking Sands relatively unnoticed.

Familiar sepia tinged with incense greet you; footfall, subdued by thick rugs, almost seems like an intrusion in the otherwise silent halls.  Before you turn into the common room, the soft murmurs of voices teases the very edge of your hearing, clearly not desiring interruption.  Even from a distance you recognize the speakers; Minfilia and Thancred’s tones are severe, a seriousness from Thancred you only remember hearing in self criticism after leaving you to challenge Ifrit.

At the echo of your boots on stone, both fall into silence.

Forcing a smile onto your features, you exchange pleasanties.

“I thought I should be the one to bring you flowers.” Thancred teases as he accepts your gift, earlier severity absent. “They’re not near as lovely as you.”

Words that once might have sent you reeling with anticipatory tingles instead sink your stomach. You look to Minfilia as a temporary escape from overly familiar features.

“What fortuitous timing.” Though she smiles, you cannot shake the sense that you’ve interrupted a discussion of great import. “Thancred’s just awakened.” You return the gesture, regardless.

During a coincidental meeting in the market a few days earlier, Yda revealed in a hushed tone that Thancred’s temporary leave is more due to his vulnerability to tempering than any worry of lingering Ascian influence.  Thancred makes no indication on whether he remembers the events of his possession, but where that leaves you in the eyes of the Scions, you know naught save the linger of distrust.

For his sake, and your own, you only hope ‘twas like a long rest.

“I won’t be long.” You assuage doubt unspoken.

“Take your time.” Again Minfilia smiles, but also offers Thancred an unreadable sideways glance. “But before you leave, pray, come to the solar. We’ve an important matter to discuss.”

With a final squeeze to Thancred’s shoulder, Minfilia returns to her chambers, leaving you and Thancred alone in silence.

Now that you face him, your purpose eludes you; you’ve so much, and so little, that can be put to words.

Thancred wears his curiosity openly, but his thoughts are shrouded and unreadable – a pleasant mask, to be certain, but an impenetrable wall nonetheless. If he shares your awkwardness, he bears no evidence of discomfort.

The uncertainty will surely pass with time.

But as silence’s weight becomes an intolerable burden, optimistic reassurances quickly fall flat. Time slows, seconds feeling as if they are bells; in the stillness you partake of Thancred’s features. The lines on his face have changed; he looks younger and softer, jaw loose instead of hard and lips pouty in place of tight – as if he lacks an ancient weight upon his shoulders.

Your stomach, already a pit of worry, flips at the comparison; with a hard swallow, you push the disgust down and blink rapidly.

In attempt to distract yourself from lips you know, but are not quite familiar, of eyes that are softened amber instead of rigid, you speak. Thancred listens to with apt attention to dry descriptions of relevant political developments and the frivolous duties you’ve been assigned.

Doubtless he’s heard the details from Minfilia already, regardless, Thancred nods with a feigned smile of interest and teases with the same charming spirits he uses to woo women Eorzea-wide.

False, all of it _false._

Mayhap Thancred means only to lighten your spirits, but his condescending gentleness only emphasizes the shallow mockery your relationship truly is.

Would that not everything be a game; you long for bluntness and honesty, for severity in place of hollow flirtation.

Scarcely believing the traitorous thoughts welling within, you push yourself up from the chair with the haste you’d use to evade enemy assault, shocking you and Thancred both.

"'Tis late.” Lies; it has not even been a bell, you simply cannot tolerate his presence any longer.  “I need to go see Minfilia.”

You thought yourself more prepared than this, rudeness not lost upon you.

You’ll apologize later, but shame's depths rouse nausea and prevent all action save escape.

The muted, identical walls of the Waking Sands are little distraction and you instead focus on the intricate embroidery adorning the entryway's carpets.  Imposing distance between you and Thancred levels your breaths, unstable heartbeats soothed into consistency, almost as if by unseen white magicks.  With reborn determination and newfound peacefulness, you approach Minfilia's door to fulfill your earlier promise, knocking with a steady rap. **  
**

Minfilia welcomes you with blatant eagerness, but her kindness does little to stymie the slinking, disagreeable memory of your last visit alone to the solar.

Caution, mistrust, disbelief.

“My apologies for the wait.” The sting of rejection is yet to fade, but you hope, with time, you will move beyond it.

“Not at all." She pauses, as if unsure how to continue. "Scion presence has been requested by the Grand Companies - yours above all.” Sweet words and empty flattery; doubtless Minfilia assigns you another mundane assignment as distraction. “Later today, in Mor Dhona, you’re to be the guest of honor at an event of great import.”

Simmering bitterness fades almost instantly at the unexpected declaration. At your surprise, a smile spreads to Minfilia's eyes, true and warm.

“On this day we greet a new era.”

\--

“Bahamut stirs.”

The others convened in his absence in preparation for this moment, mistakenly believing Lahabrea cowed.

No matter. If Elidibus espouses only balance and the others temperance, then Lahabrea must needs embody chaos’s hand.

His duty, his fate as a servant of the Source, shared now with one other.

Crystal Bearer and Heart Bearer, embodiment of Light and Darkness; such is the Gift’s power, irritant and persistent anomaly both.

She alone embraces her duty as he does his.

“For the glory of Lord Zodiark.”

He leads the reverent prayer, certain that there has been no mistake.


End file.
